


Healing The Wolf

by ShadowInEden (EffingEden)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffingEden/pseuds/ShadowInEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor never made contact with Rose after he sealed the dimensions. Isolated, Rose spirals into depression. An unlikely saviour steps in to fill the gap left by her Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a cold day, the overcast sky darkening as a storm flickered on the horizon. A grey mist of rain could be seen, millions of water drops falling into the poisoned sea. It was turbulent; white foam-tipped waves the colour of steel, smashing against the miserable beach below, a glorious show of might.

The wind was brisk, chilling his face and ruffling his short hair, flinging his tie over his shoulder. His eyes were glazed as he stared at the storm that edged closer.

The first drops started to fall, colder that the salt-scented wind, filled with female hormones that sank into his skin. Delightful, he thought sarcastically.

“Mr Saxon?” his P.A. murmured. Poor Marcus must not like the British weather.

The horizon flashed again, the silent violence stealing his breath for an instant. “One moment,” he replied. He had forgotten how glorious an oncoming storm could be. It set his hearts pounding. Such power, such promise of destruction. It was an apt title for his nemesis.

The drumming in his head thundered louder as his thoughts touched on the Doctor. Where was he now? At the end of the universe, being the one-man restaurant for the Futurekind. A smile spread across his mouth at the though, but faded quickly. No more interruptions in his plans. No more last minute saviour. No more witty repartee with someone almost as intelligent as he was.

It was something he could scarcely bear to think about.

Perhaps he was still alive. He could return, save him (hah! The irony) and… keep him. Oh yes. Yes, he liked that idea. Break him slowly. Tear everything away.

Oh yes.

The rain was getting steadily heavier, and Marcus had moved to stand under the café’s awning. The Master didn’t bother, letting the rain fall on him. His shoulders were quiet damp now, and his hair was weighted down with is, rivulets streaking down his temple and neck.

The drums beat in his blood, against the inside of his skull, in the very marrow of his bones. It demanded pain, torment, devastation – and the Doctor.

He expected the drums to get louder, and they did. But then they slowed, became muted, tuned to just his heartsbeat. His mind was quiet.

His eyes widened. What…

Someone walked past him, leaving the slick pavement to tread the scrubby grass. Blonde hair, red jacket, as soaked as he was, weaving her way towards the top of the cliff. He barely noticed, too surprised by the silence, not daring to breathe.

It didn’t last.

He knew it wouldn’t. It picked up, growing louder and faster. _Da-da-da-dum._ Why had it been muted? _Da-da-da-dum._ It shouldn’t have. _Da-da-da-dum._ What had been different?

His eyes blinked as a drop fell on his cheek and he realized he was no longer staring at the storm, but at the girl now by the bench. She didn’t sit, she didn’t even hesitate, walking closer to the edge.

 _Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum._

He started forwards, the patchy grass slick underfoot. Was it her? He didn’t wait to think it through, he didn’t need to. His feet carried him faster. He knew it had been her. He also knew what she was moments from doing. “STOP!” he shouted, breaking into a run.

“Mr Saxon!” Marcus called after him in alarm.

His smooth-soled shoes slid in the grainy mud, but he didn’t slow. The girl stared to the storm, the thunder audible now. Her arms lifted away from her sides, as if she was about to embrace someone. As he got closer to her, the drums slowed again. Yes, it was her!

“No, no, no!” he screamed as her body tilted forwards. He dove for her ankles, the ground slamming air from his chest, hands grasping, missing her by inches. She fell from the cliff without a sound. The drums rushed back as she plummeted and the Master screamed in frustration. The splash of her hitting the water was lost in the distance. He scrambled up, not giving up on silence so easily. He pulled his mobile from his inner jacket pocket and dialled the emergency service.


	2. Chapter 2

The Accident and Emergency doors opened with a whisper, not nearly as dramatic as he liked and Harold Saxon strode in. The sick and injured looked over at him, hoping he was not about to usurp their positions with something life threatening. Seeing him walking under his own power, many turned their attention back to the small, muted television.

Ignoring them, Mr Saxon moved to the desk. “Where is the blonde girl who was airlifted in?” he demanded.

The nurse looked at him, eyebrows lifting. “Are you a relative?”

The look the Master gave the nurse could have seared flesh from bone. “If I were I would have used her name. Where is she?” The question was enunciated with a soft deadliness, his smile manic.

The haggard man looked alarmed for a moment, then turned to his computer, typing in a query. The Master drummed a beat on the desk impatiently. “She’s in Intensive Care with head trauma. Follow the signs.”

His eyes narrowed and didn’t push, choosing instead to head towards the IC ward. Behind him, his P.A. followed. “Uh, Sir, you have a meeting with-”

“Cancel it. Reschedule.” He stopped suddenly, spinning on his heels with a squeak. “This will be good publicity. We need to find out who this girl is. Go back to the office, I’ll send you her name when I find out, then I want everything about her emailed to me. Go.”

He resumed his course after Marcus had nodded, following the directions on the stark walls.

The drumming in his head grew calmer as he followed the arrows, so at least he was going in the right direction. However, when he got to the ward, the drumming was still persistent.

It was easy enough to persuade the ward nurse to tell him where she was, but she explained the girl wouldn’t be there. She was in an emergency operation. The nurse directed him to the waiting room – a greeny-beige room with calming pictures on the wall and a potted plant in the corner. There was a table and a couch, several sheets of paper scattered around and the scent of crayon heavy in the air. One was half-finished, and read ‘Get Well Soon’.

How pointless.

There was nothing he could do until she came out. He didn’t know what her chances of surviving were, but in such a primitive place, her chances would be low. He wondered for an instant what could drive a person to suicide. He dismissed it, reasoning there could be little enough to live for in this time. It was lucky he was so valued as a Minister of War or he would have been quite bored by now. No, wait. Defence. Yes, they had changed the title after one of their petty wars.

His mind turned back to the girl. He hadn’t seen her face, just her hair. Blonde. Mmmm, lovely blonde. He did like to see a fair-haired girl. But how could a girl stop the drums? Had she, really?

Something had, and was hushing them now. If the girl wasn’t doing it, she had something that was. He could take that easier than he could take the girl. Was she really a girl? She could be an alien – but then they would have called Torchwood by now.

A little over two hours later, the Master was still waiting. Waxy green confetti was around his feet, the remains of several leaves from the plant. His mind had been ticking through the possibilities, heralded by soft drumming. He had persuaded himself it was an artefact. It must be, though what it was escaped him.

He took a half-coloured child’s drawing off the table, and began to fold it absentmindedly. He’d offer her money for it. The depressed enjoyed money, sure it could get them the happiness they craved. He smirked, wondering how little he could pay for it.

Just as he finished making an aerodynamically-perfect paper aeroplane, a doctor came in. “Hello, Mister…”

“Saxon,” the Master answered, throwing the plane before standing up. He smirked as the doctor blinked and looked him over. Ah, it was good to be famous.

“Oh! Mr Saxon! Yes, I recognise you now. Ah, you called the Coast Guard, for the young Jane Doe?”

“I did. How is she?”

“Well, she’s been badly hurt, but the operation went smoothly. She’s resting now. She had no I.D. on her, but we are having the police check the missing persons.”

“Oh, yes. Good, good.” He tapped his forefinger against his lip in thought, then said, “Can I see her?”

“Ah, it’s not really in line with the protocol, but… yes, I suppose one exception wouldn’t hurt, seeing as she’s still under anaesthetic. This way.”

With an eager spring in his step, the Master followed the man, the drumming falling blessedly quiet.


	3. Chapter 3

The machines beeped and flashed, tracking the girl’s vital signs. He kept being surprised by how primitive it all was. He wasn’t allowed in the room with her, which annoyed him, but the windows let him see her.

Not that there was much to see – blankets and bandages and that lovely blonde hair. He wondered again if it was her that lulled the call to war, as he first assumed. His eyes flicked around the room, but it had nothing to store personal belongings. Surely if it was an artefact, it would be with her personal belongings and they were… well. Wherever they were kept.

So, unless she had swallowed it or, Rassilon forbid, had it pierced somewhere, it had to be her.

Who was she?

“Mr Saxon!” someone said, astonished.

The Master turned, recognising the man walking towards him. “Mr Morison. And I was so sure Torchwood was not going to turn up.”

“We look after our people,” he snapped, passing the Master and reaching for the door.

The Master watched, an eyebrow lifting as the aging man opened the girl’s door. “Don’t tell me you know the girl.”

“I hope I do.” With that, the head of Torchwood One opened the door and walked in. The Master followed, curious at what this mystery girl looked like.

They moved over to the bed, careful for the wires and tubes leading from the girl. Mr Morrison leant close to her face, blocking the Master’s line of sight. “Ah, yes. Thank God, it is Rose. If we had lost her…”

The grey-haired man patted her hand, making her twitch as the intravenous was jarred. The man didn’t seem to notice, stepping back. “The Tylers are particularly protective over her, especially Jackie.”

The Master looked at the girl’s face for the first time. Her head was wrapped with bandages and her face had swollen up, mottled with bruises and scrapes. Her lip was split and her breathing was soft and steady under the sounds of the machines. Then, Mr. Morison’s words sank in.

“Jackie… Tyler? I thought Pete was a widower. And this is Rose, who is... what to them?” He turned to look at Mr Morrison, his hand sliding across the bed covers to touch her limp hand.

“Pete wasn’t a widower. He and Jackie just had a spat and she went to a spa for a few weeks to calm down. Rose is their daughter, of course.” The lie was a good one. There was no nervous twitch, not alteration in his cadence or breathing but the Master knew it was a lie.

He had met Pete at the celebration of his appointment as Minister. Marcus had whispered Pete’s name, marital status and political standing as he had walked over. Peter Alan Tyler, widower, People’s Republic.

No child. No Rose.

He saw Mr Morison’s eyes start to narrow, so he smiled winningly. “Oh yes. Slipped my mind. Rose Tyler.” His fingers stroked her knuckles as he said, “Do you know why she would do such a thing?”

Mr Morison frowned. “Humm? What ‘ _thing_?’”

“Why, throw herself off a cliff like that. Is the Tyler household an unhappy one?”

Mr Morison’s eyebrows lifted as he thought, replying, “Well I don’t know about their family life, but I know it wasn’t a suicide attempt.” He looked towards the door surreptitiously and the Master glanced left-to-right in an overly dramatic way before leaning closer. He smirked as Morison leant in too, but listened to the soft-spoken words. “Some alien has been attacking people. There has been an increase of ‘suicides’, but an agent we saved said he saw deepest desire. He was lured onto the motorway, like he couldn’t see or hear it. Ms Tyler and her team tracked it, but it breathed on her and she was away before anyone could catch her. Got the alien, though. Lucky she survived.”

“Very lucky,” replied the Master, turning his gaze back to the girl.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr Morison left shortly after, muttering something about filling in paperwork. The Master stayed, arms folded, a loosely fisted hand pressed against his mouth in thought.

His eyes trailed over her bruised and swollen face. She might just be pretty. He couldn’t really tell with the damage. His gaze then lowered to her hand, her fingers curling a little inwards, her little- and her ring-fingers bound together, a plastic tube feeding clear liquid into her blood stream. How archaic.

His eyes drifted to the I.V. bag. An idea sparked across his mind. Well, that might get a reaction from her.

He didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. He reached out his hand and absently turned the bag towards him, as if he were reading the words then squeezed viciously.

The girl, Rose, gasped with pain as her veins swelled and the bleeping sped up. His eyes ran over them, checking he hadn’t damaged her too much. No, she’d be fine, and hopefully a little more awake.

“Doctor…” she whispered pathetically.

The Master smiled down at her as she struggled weakly against the weight of her own body. He reached out, pressing his fingers to her hot forehead below the bandages. In a soothing tone, he said, “Easy, easy. You’re safe.”

His fingertips glided over her eyebrow, following the ridge of her eye socket to her temple. Surprisingly, she sighed and relaxed, as if believing him. He pulled his hand away, which she didn’t like. “Don’t go,” she breathed.

 _Better and better_ , the Master thought. “I’ll come back. Shhhh…”

With that, she let herself fall back into unconsciousness. How interesting.

He took his phone from his inner pocket and phoned the office. As he expected, Marcus picked up. “Hello?”

“Rose Tyler. Peter Tyler’s daughter. Got that?”

Marcus was repeating the name back to him, when a nurse entered. She glanced at him as she checked the I.V. and the bandages, but didn’t question him. She was quite nervous and mousy. Perfect.

“Good. Get on it.” He hung up, then to the woman, said, “Excuse me, nurse. Might I have a word?”

She looked at him, confusion written all over her face and a faint blush raising on her cheeks. The Master stared her, pushing his will against hers. It broke easily, her face going slack.

“I am the Master and you will obey me,” he said, the old words coming from his mouth as easily as if he were seven hundred again. He laughed, the feeling of power a glorious rush. It died quickly, the mastery of the weak only satisfying him for a moment. “Get me a blood sample of Rose Tyler. Now.”

The nurse merely nodded and moved to obey.


	5. Chapter 5

As he suspected, the battery of tests he did on the girl’s blood sample said she was human, one-hundred percent. Well, ninety-nine-ish. More than enough. That other bit was a common ancestor in most of the humans that hadn’t marooned themselves on various islands.

How was a pure-enough-to-make-no-difference human girl making the drums quiet?

He’d read the report Marcus had sent him. The only curious thing was the candid photos of her only started appearing in early July. The fakes were good. Better than his, but that didn’t stop them being fake.

She was a curiosity, one he couldn’t work out or keep away from.

They had moved her from the IC ward to another ward, but she didn’t wake up. He’d exchanged a few pleasantries with her parents and bought her flowers. Not the dyed ones from the little shop, but some real, greenhouse-grown flowers. Not that she could appreciate them.

It had almost been a week since he’d seen her fall. Her brain activity was good, so at least he wouldn’t have to lug around a vegetable. The Tylers had gone home for the night, reluctant to leave but feeling painfully powerless by staying.

Alone, he sat down in Jackie’s chair and watched Rose sleep.

Not long after, the silence beckoned the Master to rest.

* * *

It was strange, where she was. Soft and warm. She didn’t want to move. There had been darkness, cold, hammering darkness. Now, it was a kind-of grey. The only sound was a distant grinding hum. Her mouth tasted disgusting, and there was a nest of ferrets in her head.

Why was she here?

 _A brown coat, billowing back, scruffy hair stiffened with gel. He was only walking, hands thrust into his pockets absently and head turning left and right as he searched for something. Someone._

 _Longing so deep it shook her soul, she had followed him. It seemed only he was clear in her mind, only he was in focus._

 _He was… he was…_

His name slid from her mind and she woke with the shock of emptiness.

The grey blur came into focus. A ceiling.

Nice.

The sound changed, becoming a rhythmic beeping. She grasped for what had been there, that sound, but all that came to mind was the skinny man, a jar of marmalade and the feeling of joy.

It wasn’t much.

She rolled her head, finding it difficult but manageable. The headache kept pounding.

The electric lights were dimmed, though still bright enough that she could see well enough. There were a few things attached to her by wires and tubes. She wondered whether the drip or the catheter was the more uncomfortable and had just decided it was the catheter when she noticed a man.

Not that she hadn’t felt him there, she just hadn’t noticed him. He was slumped against the bed, face buried in the crook of one arm, his suit wrinkled. He was sleeping.

She lifted her hand and slid her fingers through his short, brown hair. It was soft and silky and free of products. It was nicer than the ceiling. Not as brown as the thin bloke’s, though and shorter, which was a pity.

Suddenly he was awake.

He hadn’t moved. Nothing about him had changed, but the air seemed to tremble with an alert focus. Her fingers stilled and she pulled back her hand, unsure of what would happen now.

The moment stretched, the man almost as reluctant as she was to put a stop to the quiet. Eventually, his head did come up, peering at her with strange, whiskey-coloured eyes. There was such curiosity there and such hunger, almost like...

“You’re awake,” he purred.

Rose tried to speak, but her throat, though not dry, was still rough from lack of use and congealed saliva.

The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion before understanding washed over his face. “Ah, water. Carbon-based life forms…” the last was a derisive mutter as he sat up and stretched. He then took a half-full plastic tumbler from the bedside table and stood, so he could dribble a little into her mouth. Some spilled down her cheek, but most washed down her throat. Her mouth still tasted disgusting, but she had better luck talking when she tried again.

“My head’s killing me.”

“I think it’s to be expected, after you throw yourself off a cliff,” the man said, his tones gentle and low but condescending to the extreme.

She let it pass, too concerned about what he’d actually said. “…Cliff?”

 _The thin man spun on his heel, his lips forming her name. Then he grinned and opened his arm… and she was falling, so far. The cold wet darkness swallowed her, and he was gone._

“Why did he do that?” she asked, starting to tremble but not knowing why. She looked at the man standing over her. “Where is he?”

His fingers stroked over her forehead, cool and comforting. “He’s gone,” he told her in is soft velvet voice.

She didn’t even know his name. Why was she so upset? He’d hurt her. He was still hurting her. Rose looked away from the stranger, then said, “Will you stay?”

“For a while. But I’ll come back.” She looked back at him, catching him looking at his wristwatch and pulling a comical face. She snorted. He looked at her, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk, his eyes still burning.

“Hey,” she said softly, realizing something. “Who are you?”

The smirk broadened to flash her teeth. He leant in, planting his hands on either side of her head and whispered, “Can you keep a secret? I’m the Master.” The name sent a chill over her skin, the way he said it and the way his eyes bored into hers making it more than just a silly title. He was serious. It was his name.

“Say it,” he urged, his eyes dancing over her face in excitement.

She felt her lower lip pouting out at the strange command, but she was too tired to argue. Why was she so tired? “Master.”

He groaned softly, more like a purr really, his eyes sliding to gleaming slits.

“Mind getting off?” Rose asked, deciding she didn’t like his reaction. Maybe if they hadn’t just met… but seeing as they had, it was a bit freaky.

Anger flared in his eyes as they snapped open. He didn’t move for several moments, before straightening. “Harold Saxon,” he said, “You can call me Harry, if you like. Not many people do. Too Hogwarts, for a Minister, perhaps. I shouldn’t have read that series just before landing…”

His sudden burst of babble was disconcerting, but it was familiar, too. It made her feel safe. “Mmm, maybe,” she agreed as her eyelids drooped.

“At least it’s not Ronald… don’t tell me you’re falling asleep again! You’ve slept for a whole week already!”

“Five more minutes,” she murmured, dropping off.

“Worse than a tortoise!” was the last she heard.


	6. Chapter 6

He’d left the hospital in disgust. Sleeping so much, it wasn’t healthy. How could such a short-lived race survive, dreaming away half of their existence? It didn’t make sense, how they would spread through the galaxy, like a plague. A slow, snoring plague.

Now, he was slumped in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven car.

The drums rose again, dragging his ire to the front of his mind and burning his patience. He wondered if they were just that little bit louder, that tinsy bit faster… but it had to be his imagination.

Had to be.

He had to keep focused. He had to finish modifying the plans of the Valiant, so it would actually get off the ground under its own power. Some physicist idiot had protested that it was ‘impossible’. The Master scoffed out loud. The man had no concept of the impossible.

His mind circled back, inevitably, to Rose Tyler. Now, she was impossible. A human who could bring sanity to a Time Lord, that was improbable. What made it impossible was that, according to Marcus’ research, she was a chav. How demeaning.

A chav had power over him.

The thought made him tense. If he did find it was her that made his head clear and crystalline, then he would need her.

Well, then, he would just have to have a hold over her. One that made her need him more than he needed her.

He smiled slowly, relaxing against the seat and thought on the many different ways he could break her without her knowing, his fingers tapping his knee.

* * *

When Rose woke up again, her thoughts felt less like they were coming through cotton wool, though she still felt strangely disconnected.

She took a deep breath, feeling her chest give several twinges. She let the breath out in a soft groan, blinking her eyes open. The room was brighter, but she wasn’t as warm as she had been.

She brought a hand up to itch at her scalp, her fingers finding bandages. Oh no, her hair… but that was silly, worrying about her hair. She suddenly became aware of a voice. It had been talking for a long time, she remembered her dreams had that voice in them, too. Comforting, soothing.

“…and your dad want to buy me a zeppelin. Well, what am I gonna do with a zeppelin? I don’t like ‘em that much, really. Big, ugly slow things. I told him he didn’t have to, but he just smiled. Said it would be… Rose!” The familiar voice exclaimed. A face came into her line of sight. A woman, blonde hair hanging free to her shoulders, her face made-up prettily, with a lot of eye definition.

Rose blinked at the face, the smile full of joy and love and excitement. Who was she?

The answer rose slowly, but then she knew. _The flat, Powell Estate, the final cup of tea before bed, two sugars, the endless chatter and the haircuts. Jackie Tyler, who was always there. Her mum_. “Mum,” Rose rasped, feeling her mouth spread in a wide smile.

And she was Rose. _Public school, cruel kids, her boyfriend Mickey, chips, job at Henrik’s department store, an explosion, a man with quite massive ears, a grin that tugged at her mind, a blue box… and a man walking away from her._

The rush of memories trailed off, only a moment having passed. She felt dizzy and lost.

But her mum was there. She was speaking again, so Rose listened. “…worried about you! The doctors say you could have died-” _A flash of golden light, so bright it hurt. Hurt everything._ “-Died, Rose! I told you Torchwood was dangerous-” _A 'T' shaped out of honeycomb, a golden orb staring at her, knowing her, inescapable._ “- but would you listen? No, you just have to go off on your adventures, never mind the risk-” _A boy with a gas mask, a man in a cage with liquid black eyes, a frame with a face stretched on it, a fire-breathing Cyclops woman._ “- Rose Tyler has to have her fun. You will worry me to the grave! This is too far, now. This is almost as bad as when you were with him! I’m tired of it, Sweetheart. I’m tired of always being scared for you. Stop doing this. Please, Rose.”

Rose shut her eyes, not understanding. “What happened to me, Mum?”

She felt her mother’s fingers stroke her face. Her mum tutted, and said, “They were afraid you’d lose a bit of your memory. You ran off a cliff, you did. On one of your missions. You were lucky that Mr Saxon saw you! He phoned for help and they fished you out… but not after a few bumps.”

Mr Saxon. Her eyes opened. _Cool fingers, velvety voice, slumped against the bed. Soft hair._ The rest was blurry. They had talked, a little.

“Mr Saxon?” Rose murmured.

“Yes. He’s a Minister, you know. Your dad said he use to be Minister for Communications, then got into being Minister of Defence. He’s bought you flowers. Mickey did too. Isn’t it romantic, though? Saving your life, then buying you a bunch of irises. They smell lovely. Well, did. They’re not very fresh now. But he’s been very concerned.”

The look in her mum’s eyes was stern encouragement and hope. Rose smiled. “Yeah? Well… how old is he? Is he good looking?”

“Here,” Jackie said, taking a book from the small table. “This is his book, he left it, signed and all. It’s got a photo in it…” Rose looked at the cover. Black, with a red lipstick kiss and the title ‘ _Kiss me, Kill me_.’ “Look. Not too bad, for a Minister.” Her mum turned the book, showing Rose a black-and-white head shot.

He didn’t look old, like she’d expected. He just looked normal. Respectable, but with smirk that she remembered.

 _“Can you keep a secret?”_

Rose looked at her mum, who still looked hopeful. “You’re right. Not too bad,” Rose repeated, her grin spreading. Her mum looked overjoyed, and Rose wondered why.

She didn’t have a chance to ask, as a nurse came in. After that, she didn’t get five minutes alone with her mum, what with all the doctors asking questions and taking blood and shining torches.

When they were finally done, Rose was exhausted. She fell asleep and dreamt of dancing in mid-air.


	7. Chapter 7

The delivery came two days later.

Flown in from Japan onboard a sleek, official zeppelin. The crate was large enough to hold a family car. It was a little awkward getting it to the converted nuclear bunker, but that was such a minor thing, the annoyance vastly eclipsed by the delight of the actual arrival.

Once inside, the crate was opened and the five large, metal coffins were lined up by the silent soldiers. The Master was so excited he yo-yoed between bouncing from coffin-to-coffin and running his hands over the rounded edges.

“Out, all of you,” he commanded when the crate was empty. “No disturbances.”

There was a round of ‘Yessir!’ from the saluting guards before they marched out, the door closed behind them.

“Alone at last,” he said at the coffin, before typing a code onto the small keypad. The locks slid open with a solid-sounding clunk. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his laser screwdriver. It wasn’t as versatile as he liked, but he had Lazlabs working on that.

He spun the settings, then levelled it at the far wall. A voice filled the room, robot-like in its electrical monotones.

 _Work it, make it, do it, makes us, harder, better, faster, stronger._

Another voice joined in, stuttering at first then mixing with the robotic tones smoothly. The Master grinned widely and threw the lid off the coffin.

Inside, held still by magnetic restraints, was a Cyberman.

“Delete, delete, delete,” it droned at him, it’s joints whining softly as it struggled.

The Master tutted and shook his head. “That’s no way to greet your Master, is it? I know, I know,” he crooned as he checked the restraints, “you prefer ‘Controller,’ but it’s so impersonal…” He lent back, touching the screwdriver to his mouth in thought. “Though, this isn’t personal, you understand. Just business.” His thumb turned the dials again and he held the tip to the crest of the Cyberman’s chest.

The crest came loose, the Master lifting it free with one hand. He peered into the glowing, blue hole filled with white gelatinous strings and said, “Oooh, that’s impressive, for such a backwards little world.”

“Delete!”

“Yes, you said. Oh! Is that an emotional inhibitor?” He tapped it with his screwdriver, turning it off.

The Cyberman stopped struggling. “What’s happening? Why… so cold? Why…”

The Master tilted his head, sneering. “I think I preferred ‘delete.’ Never mind. Now, saw ‘ _Ahhhh…_ ’”

He pushed the screwdriver into the crevice and held down the button. The Cyberman screamed, the sound mixing with the electronic rap music.

Grinning manically, the Master purred, “That’s it!”

* * *

That evening, Rose held the strange-looking handset to her ear, grinning as Mikey told her about Torchwood Three, in Cardiff. “…and I’m telling you babe, no joke, they have a pterodactyl! A pet one. Apparently, it’s friendly enough if you feed it dark chocolate. I dunno. I hunch every time it flaps over – it’s got a look in it’s eye. It’s tryin’ to sneak up on me so it can take aim and –”

Rose broke in, chuckling, “And the staff? How’re they?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Well, Owen’s all right. Looks like a cross between a monkey and a frog, though. There’s a quiet girl, Tosh, on the computers. A right wiz at ‘em, she is. Then there’s Suzie. She’s… intense.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose replied. “Sooo… You and Jake find a place to stay yet? Have you gone to pick out curtains, yet?”

“Oi,” he barked with mock-annoyance. “Miss Cheeky.”

“Sorry, sorry! I can’t help it. It’s sweet, I’m pleased for you.” Her hand twisted on the bed sheets. She wasn’t lying. She was pleased for Mickey, finding someone else. She hadn’t expected that someone to be a guy, but they’d had to depend on each other. There was sure to be some tension. Better sexual than hostile.

“Yeah? Well, you should be! Three years next month. You’d better come to the party, it’ll be a blast!”

“Sure I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it.”

There was a moment of companionable silence, then Mickey said, “So, Jackie says there’s some gaps in your memory?”

The smile fell off her face. It had been the only thing anyone wanted to talk to her about since she had woken up. Even Mr Morison when he came to debrief her. “Yeah,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t know what I’ve forgotten, though. I keep remembering things all the time, though.” Things that didn’t make sense. Monsters that haunted her dreams, the thin man walking away and more recently, a key.

“Humm, lets see. Do you remember your eleventh birthday?”

“The one with the magician?” She smiled slowly again, feeling her muscle move stiffly. She was still pretty bruised, most of it a yellowed green. Not her most attractive look. Good thing Mickey was all the way in Wales. “Didn’t he scare you so bad you wet yourself?”

He groaned, then sighed. “Ah well, worth a try. How about the Year Eleven stage production?”

“Wasn’t it ‘ _Les Mis_ ’? You had a main part… and your voice cracked on the opening night!” She started to laugh at the memory.

Mickey chuckled too. “Yeah, I was so gutted! Okay, one last warm up question, then I’ll start for real. Where did the Doctor keep the marmalade?”

Rose felt her smile slip again. Doctor? “Mickey, is that an innuendo?”

“Huh? Naw! On the TARDIS. Man, there must be one fit doctor lookin’ at your head for you to see innuendo in that.”

“TARDIS?” she repeated, making it into a question.

There was a silence, then Mickey snorted. “Stop pullin’ my leg. You had me goin’ for a second there.”

He was laughing. Rose said louder, almost shouting, over his laughter, “Mickey, what’s a TARDIS?”

His laughter trailed off. “You’re not kiddin’, are you? You’ve really forgotten… the Doctor too?”

“What? Why would a doctor forget about it?”

“Did you say ‘TARDIS?’” came Harold Saxon’s voice from the doorway.


	8. Chapter 8

Mr Saxon was wearing a dark suit, no tie and the top three buttons of his shirt undone, flashing a V of skin. He held a bunch of flowers wrapped in brown paper and string, not the cellophane of the hospital’s little shop. They were red. Poppies. A strange sort of flower to give, but pretty. Rose met his eyes and saw intense curiosity in them.

Mickey was talking to her and she took a sharp breath, looking away from the Minister, concentrating on her ex. “… coming down to London again, yeah? It’s better is we talk face-to… woah. How’d you do that?”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She waited for him to say goodbye, but heard only a startled yelp and a clatter. Jake must have pounced on him or something. She hung up and looked back at her saviour.

Mr Saxon slowly closed the room door.

It was a natural thing to do, for a bit of privacy, but he did it with a frightening finality. Rose tried to sit up, the bed tilted so she was already halfway there, but Mr Saxon’s eyes narrowed at her, and he walked towards her slowly.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Did you just say ‘TARDIS?’” His fingers stroked across the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed intently on her face.

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Yeah, but I don’t remember what it is.”

His lips pressed together, obviously suppressing some emotion. He grinned suddenly – which was even scarier. “It’s a very _convenient_ thing, isn’t it? Memory loss.” He moved closer, dropping the flowers onto the table by the pitcher of water and grapes. “I mean, you could be hiding anything behind those pretty eyes of yours.” He reached out a hand, a thick silver ring gleaming in the light.

Rose leant away from him, made nervous about his intensity, the fire in his tones. “No, but I said already, I don’t-”

“Don’t remember? That’s all right. It’s still there. Still waiting to be found. And I’ll find it.” His fingers ghosted over her cheek, cool and fleeting over her bruises, sliding up her cheekbone to her temple. “Aww,” he murmured, “You’re shaking. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle…” His other hand came up to slide against the opposite side of her face

His eyes burned into hers, his breath tickling across her face, then his lids slid down and something was in her head. It was him. She didn’t know how, but he was looking at her mind, her memories. She felt his chest under her hand before she realized she’d lifted it. He didn't move back when she pushed at him, smiling instead.

She felt something in her mind, something cool, knowing, searching, moving through her memories. But that was not the only thing she felt moving in her mind. Something else stirred. Snarled.

“What…?” Mr Saxon murmured, stopping his exploration. He laughed, and said, “Sending your invisible friends after me? Cute, but don’t you dare,” he enunciated softly. He started to press her mind again, flicking through her memories like he was channel surfing.

 _Fish and chips her dad smuggled in for her – “Keep shtum, yeah?” - her mum’s comforting babble - “…won’t believe how much weight she’s put on!” tests – “everything’s looking okay,” - bland food, darkness, the thin man walking away, a girl screaming “Rose, it’s that one, it’s-” – days of adventures and paperwork and nothing and the one constant in the turmoil. Aching loneliness. Torn and gaping gaps in her heart, her skin yearning for a touch, crying in the middle on the night when she couldn’t sleep from thinking about-_

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Jackie’s voice said loudly. The Master pulled his fingers away and stepped back in a show of guilt. Rose saw the flash of annoyance before the emotion was smoothed off his face to show instead a welcoming, professional smile.

He turned to her mum and purred, “Jackie-”

Jackie didn’t stop talking, moving further into the room, holding two cups of steaming tea. “I should’ve knocked, I thought you were still on the phone! It’s nice to see you, Harry. Oh, you brought her more flowers! What are them? Have you thanked him yet, Rose?”

In a very soft voice, Rose heard him say under his breath, “ _Those_.”

Rose had dropped back against the pillows when Saxon had let go. She suppressed a smile as she started, “I…” She looked at Saxon, who had pivoted back to her, an eyebrow raised and a smug little smile curling the corners of his mouth. She looked at the poppies. “Uh. Thanks. Look, mum, I-”

“Oh, don’t worry sweetheart. I, ah, think I forgot to pick up my change. You two have these, I’ll be back in a bit. Oh, if I don’t see you again, Harry, we’re having a welcome-home-Rose dinner thing on Saturday. You should come!”

She handed the cups to Harry, who said, “That’s very kind of you, I’d love to come.” He carried the cups the two paces to the bedside table.

Jackie peered at his backside and mouthed “ _Phwoah!_ ” at Rose, who mouthed in shock, “ _Mum!_ ” Jackie grinned and waved at her daughter before leaving them alone again.

“Interesting character, your mother,” Saxon stated, sounding more like the politician he was than the maniac of a few minutes ago. His quickly shifting moods was confusing but somehow comforting.

“You can say that again,” Rose drawled. “What was that about?” She gestured at her face at his confused look. “You were… you were in my head! That’s not- not-”

“Not a common skill, no. Helps a lot with UN negotiations, though.” He grinned at her, waiting for a laugh. When it didn’t come he looked a little confused, then alarmed, “I’m making political jokes. Ugh.” He shook his head at himself, and handed Rose one of the cups, saying, “Careful. It’s hotter than a Judoon’s kilt.”

She took it eagerly, eyes flicking up to his eyes when he didn’t let go. What he said sunk in. She blinked, and said in a nonplussed voice, “Judoon?”

He hummed in thought, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he frowned. “A Vogan’s control room?” he tried. “Tubby custard? No, wait, that’s terrestrial. A Nimon’s horn? The Face of Bo’s exhaust fumes?”

 _A glass fronted case with a face bigger than she was tall. Green eyes, a slow tired voice._

“Ahhh. That got something, didn’t it?” Saxon asked, sounding pleased, in sing-song he chimed, “You know the Face of Bo!”

“But why do I know?” she asked, suddenly frantic, desperate for an answer. “All these things. Faces in jars, dustbins with loo plungers, clockwork men with curly wigs, mile-high waves frozen all the way to the horizon and whole worlds, burning…” Her voice wobbled with unsurely and her eyes burned as frustrated tears welled.

Harry hand pulled the cup away from her, and put it carefully on the table as she wiped her hand against her eyes in annoyance. She was trembling again, and she stared at the bed covers, unable to look at Harry. “Whenever a nurse walks in here, I keep expecting them to look like cats. Cats!” She laughed, hugging her arms around herself, feeling like she was going crazy. Wasn’t she? No one could tell her what the things in her head were. When she’d mentioned them to her mum, Jackie had looked worried. Pete, her dad who wasn’t, had told her not to say too much, not to ask questions. Torchwood business, he said.

No one would say what it meant. Not even Mickey. She was alone, so alone.

Arms enclosed her, pulled her into a firm muscled chest. She stiffened, then relaxed after a moment, clutching him, letting him rock her back and forth, crooning to her softly like she was a child with nightmares. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I believe you. I’ll help you. I’ll fix you.”

She pulled back, looking up at his face, seeing conviction, strength and that yawning, terrifying hunger. Something else rose in his gaze as she looked up at him. Something hotter, more intimate. His fingers touched her healing, still sore face again, eyes moving from her damp eyes to her lips then across the fading bruises. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, as if just seeing it.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he didn’t give her time, his head dipping to catch her lips with his. Surprised, Rose twitched back, which only made Saxon growl softly, his mouth moving hungrily against her, suckling her split lip, nipping firmly, his hand sliding to her neck, holding her to him. Rose responded, tilting her head up and catching his upper lip between her own, licking the captive flesh with a flick of her tongue. He pulled back with a groan, then kissed her again, at a different angle, pushing his tongue into her mouth to glide against hers before retreating, coaxing her to thrust back into him. She was too quick for his teeth though, pulling back as he tried to catch her, so he invaded her mouth again, playing their tongues and lips together in ways that made her hands claw into his shirt again, this time her nails scratching his skin.

A moment later, he broke the kiss with a growl, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes burning dawn at her. “Oooh, you little minx!” he purred. He chuckled as she tried to kiss him again, evading her attempts. “If only, if only,” he murmured, touching her lower lip, “but as agreeable as you are, I think the staff would be against anything I want to do to you. Saturday, you’re released?”

“Mmm,” Rose murmured. “Actually, I get out Friday. Mum want to make me rest a bit longer. So, I’ll see you…?”

“On Saturday,” he said firmly, smiling at her wickedly. “Maybe sooner.” He pulled away fully then, his shirt sling out of her grip, a little worse for wear. He picked up the now cool enough tea and took a slow sip, looking at her as he walked backwards. “Good night, Miss Tyler,” he said, pushed the door open with one hand and walked out, blowing her a kiss before leaving her line of sight.

Rose touched her lips, still feeling him there.


	9. Chapter 9

Several days later, the Master sat alone in a conference room, waiting.

 _Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum,_ his fingers drummed on the table. _Bloody Americans,_ he thought. Demanding to hold a satellite conference with him at a ridiculous hour and then having the audacity to be late.

Pulled away from his work by a phone call from President Harriet Jones herself, asking if the rumours were true. Deals with the Japanese black market, millions of taxpayers’ money disappearing, Bunker 42 draining the nation’s energy reserves. He was Harold Saxon, not some shady MP. He was new, better, clean. Just what the country needed. Harriet Jones just needed to trust him.

He’d calmed his President’s mind with smooth tones and pretty words. Now he had to go up against the American who had probably been sold the information by the very people who’d supplied him with the intact Cybermen.

It was typical politics, though laughably simplified. And now they were trying to intimidate him by ‘letting him sweat’ — such a childish tactic. Worse, a dull one.

He pulled out his Gameboy and turned it on, waiting for the Americans to get over themselves.

Exactly fourteen minutes and eighteen seconds (or two Sandshrews, a Diglet and a particularly nasty Onix) later, the plasma screen flickered from empty black to a woman who could have been called a battleaxe, if it hadn’t been for all the obvious surgery to tighten her sagging skin. She had dyed chocolate-coloured hair and icy blue eyes. The Secretary of Defence looked smugly righteous for a few seconds, before she realized Mr Saxon hadn’t been waiting on tenterhooks. He hadn’t even looked up from his game.

“Mr Saxon,” she snapped in her horrid accent and smoke roughened voice, “if I could have a moment of your precious time.” The last two words were almost sarcastic. The Master was amused at the attempt.

He spoke without looking up at her, “Brilliant idea, this ‘Pokemon.’ Capture wild mutant beasts, shrink them into hollow cricket balls then make them fight each other for entertainment. Genius!” He let his hands drop to his lap as he contemplated the idea, looking at the ceiling absently. “Actually, I might have to get someone to work on that. I like shrinking things, but usually they-”

Mrs Graham was almost grinding her teeth. Over him, she said, “President Norris wants to know what England is planning to do with the weapons purchased from Japan.”

“-don’t survive the… hummm? Oh! Those. Well, what can anyone do with a clutch of Cybermen? Can’t reprogramme them, can you?” He looked at her then, for the first time, offering her a charming smile as he hinted he knew about the attempts America had made on doing just that.

Her fury rose and the Master only felt glee at being able to bait someone so easily. It had been a guess, as well. Her voice was a disgusting growl as she said, “I don’t know who the _hell_ you think you are, but I advise you to think the next time you speak. I also _advise_ that the British Government make their new acquisition a gift to the U.S. I shall also be sending a request to President Jones to have you replaced. Just how insistent I am depends on what you say next!”

The Master’s smile stretched into a grin and he chuckled. “I don’t think so, Mrs Graham. You see, Harriet Jones isn’t going to listen. She trusts me, as she should. If America wants to jeopardise our special relations over a handful of metal exoskeletons, then that’s your prerogative. But do you really want to… what’s that blogging term… _defriend_ a nation that knows how to return the Cybermen to their factory settings?”

The Secretary of Defence gaped. “You… your people have worked it out?” The Master didn’t reply, he just smiled at her again and turned his attention back to the game in his hands. The badly ageing woman was silent as she thought. “Then we’ll buy them off you. What did you pay? A million each? We’ll double it.”

He jabbed the plastic buttons a few more times, then switched the small device off, throwing it lightly onto the table where it clattered. “Remember when England and America were working on nuclear bombs?” he asked, steeping his fingers and peering at the screen. “Remember how America suddenly stopped communicating information? This… isn’t like that. If you’re nice, we’ll share. But right now, America is the bully in the playground of the world. And I don’t share my toys with bullies.” He smiled at her slack, ancient face and chirped, “Good-night!” before cutting transmission.

“Oh, that felt good!” he said to the empty room. He stood, leaving the game on the table. Now, he had to put a few finishing touches to the Cybermen. Two days until dinner at the Tyler household. They had to be ready.

With an excited spring in his step, the Master walked out and headed to Bunker 42.

* * *

 

The next afternoon, Rose stepped out of her Dad’s car, looking up at the house.

It was as impressive as she remembered. Big ‘n posh. She waited for that feeling of _home_ , but it didn’t come. Maybe it was like the memories. If she just waited a little longer, it would come to her. Maybe.

Pete’s voice drifted over, “You all right, love? Shit, did they let you out too soon? I told ‘em-”

“I’m okay, really,” she said, turning away from the house to smile at her father. “I was just… thinking, you know. Sorry.” She shook her head a little and swung the passenger door shut.

Pete locked the car, then walked next to her, hovering in case she stumbled.

It had been a long few days, waiting to be stable enough to be let out. Something in her mind told her it should have been faster, or slower. Maybe different hospitals had different healing times, like microwaves. Ones that stank of bleach and had screaming kids and rows of beds took the longest. Private rooms and _Obsidian Sun Technology_ on their IV bags took a few weeks. Rooms that purred and whispered and trembled were the fastest.

Her legs wobbled as her head spun.

 _“Come on, stay awake, it’s not too bad! Look, look, look, we’ve got some nice clean oxygen here. Deep breaths now, deep breaths…. Rose! Rose! ROSE! It’s okay, it’s okay — Dathrin poisoning, that’s all. You just had to sniff that flower, didn’t you? I’m so sorry, I didn’t… Stay awake! Keep breathing. Breathe, Rose! Please breathe…”_

“Whoa, there! They said you might go a bit wobbly. Food, tea with sugar, and a good long sit down. Just what the doctor ordered.” She heard the two voices over the top of each other, felt Pete wrap an arm around her and half carry her into the house. But she also felt a breathing mask over her mouth, hands quickly fluttering over her pulse points and stroking hair off her forehead. She saw a strange mix of hallway and a golden haze of lights and glinting equipment.

 _The mask was pulled off her, and lips locked onto hers, fearful hands tipping her head back so a cool stream of air could be forced into her chest. Her lips tingled._

“Here we go. Settee all to yourself, and the remote’s just there. I’ll go and make you a nice cuppa. Won’t be a minute!”

 _“Come on.” Another gift of cool air. “Come on!” And another. “Please, not like this!” Again, more forceful than before, hurting. Her body spasmed, then coughed, weakly at first then with more strength. “YES!” crowed the man’s voice. Something was brought up to her mouth, a jar. She didn’t know what he was doing, but felt something escape her lungs. When it did, the jar was snatched away and the lid slammed on. Then he was holding her as she gasped for air, crooning words she didn’t understand._

“Nothing on?” Pete asked when he walked back in, a steaming cup and a plate of bourbons in his hands.

Rose looked up at her father, and didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “What can’t I remember? There’s bits, but… it’s not enough.”

Pete sat down next to her, putting the plate and the cup on the little table in Rose’s reach. She took the tea and sipped it, letting a sigh of contentment out. “I don’t know everything, love, but perhaps it’s something Mickey should tell you. He knows the most. I’ll get the phone for you.”

He got up and patted her knee. Rose smiled gratefully at him, and took a biscuit.

She tried phoning Mickey a few minutes later, but the automated voice told her his phone was out of range. Well, she’d try again later. At least she was remembering bits by herself.

She picked up the remote and started to flick through the channels.


	10. Chapter 10

Rose stared blankly at the face in the mirror, feeling detached again. There were small differences in what she knew she looked like, and the girl in the mirror. The main difference was her hair. Longer, lighter, her roots only showing the hint of darker, natural colour. It was cut in a much more elegant style than the one her mum usually gave her. She remembered as if through a haze that it had been done by a professional. She didn’t usually have the cash to spare for that… but then, she _was_ living in a mansion on the edge of London.

Her dad’s house. But her dad was dead. But he wasn’t.

Rose shut her eyes as her mind gave a wobble of confusion. _I don’t have time for this,_ she told herself firmly. _Don’t think about it. Get ready._

She took a long, steadying breath until her healing ribs twinged and pushed it out carefully. She should take some more painkillers. Maybe. There would be wine at the dinner, and meds never mixed well with drink.

Should she be fun or mature? There wasn’t any competition. She’d just spent weeks in hospital and another day being boring and sensible. Her very skin seemed to itch – and not just because of the healing. She wanted something that made her heart race and her blood fizz with adrenaline.

 _The sickly-sweet scent of weed on his breath, his hands that knew just where to go, the cute flick of his fringe, “Come and see the world, Rose. Let me show you.” - Intense blue eyes, leather jacket, “Run!” – The world below on fire – Running through corridors with a strange, shuffling something behind her – “Mummy?” – Blazing, burning gold light – A blue box with a flashing light on top – Her hands slipping – a massive creature, bleeding milky-white liquid, moaning in agony, surrounded by three hooting bipeds wielding spears – Laughing in the pub, cut short as a magenta bolt slammed into Kevin’s chest, turning to see a human toting some major alien weapon, eyes solid white and a collar fixed into his neck – Lips catching hers, commanding, devouring, claiming –_

“Not helping,” she told herself with a firm shake of her head. The memory fragments flickered in her mind’s eye for a moment longer before sinking back. The memory of the kiss lingered. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, reliving it again with a soft moan. Sternly, she looked at herself, “Really not helping,” she said louder.

She picked up her mascara and applied it carefully, making sure she didn’t open her eyes too wide while the liquid dried.

The bruising had gone down a lot, the yellow-green smudges still showing were concealed under a layer of make-up. The cuts and scrapes were scabs and couldn’t be hidden.

After the mascara, she put on the pinkest lippy she could find and that was still quite a conservative shade.

She put it on and looked at herself again, eyes narrowing at the reflection. A second latter, she realized what it was. The difference. It was bigger than her hair, or the make-up.

She was older.

Not by much, but the worry lines on her forehead and the small crease in the corners of her eyes were deeper. Her skin lay closer to her bones, but that was to be expected after being in hospital… It wasn’t just that, though. Her eyes and mouth kept sliding into a sad expression, and she felt sad without knowing why, when there was nothing going on around her.

She was going to pin Mickey down and make him tell her everything.

Rose practiced smiling, her mouth behaving but her eyes not wanting to lose the forgotten sorrow.

The doorbell rang joyously, and she heard her mum yelling, “They’re here! Oi, Peter, Rose! Come down! Guests!”

Rose smiled for real, and her eyes finally meant what her lips were saying. Her mum was ever so excited over this. She got up and made her way out of the bedroom. Her dad was just coming out of his study, straightening his tie. He caught her eye and grinned, eyebrows lifting in curiosity. Rose flashed him a smile in response and walked herself to the top of the stairs to prove she was fine.

That was easy. The trick now was to get down them without falling.

Pete jogged down the steps on the other side of the staircase, reaching the bottom a moment before the front door was opened by their honest-to-god butler.

Standing with polite ease in the doorway, head ducked and smiling graciously, was Mr Saxon. He looked up slowly, eyes flicking from her parents, ignoring the butler, then looking up at her. His smile broadened.

“Mr Saxon, We’re so pleased you were able to make it,” Pete said, stepping forwards to shake the other man’s hand in greeting.

“Just Harry, if you don’t mind. I’ve been Mr Saxoned enough this week,” he said, eyes leaving Rose to fix on her dad.

“Of course, Harry. Ah, the other guests should be arriving shortly…”

“Oh, am I early?” he asked, sounding not at all surprised.

“A little, but don’t worry about it,” Jackie broke in, moving up beside her husband. “Anyway, you’re here now. No point in you going anywhere, is there?”

Harold laughed softly at her rhetoric question. “Jackie, succinct as always. Good evening.” He started to shake her hand, too, but found himself in a motherly hug.

Pete cleared his throat, but Jackie refused to let go until Harry tentatively returned the gesture. “You saved my Rose. It makes you as good as family in my books,” she told him as she let him go.

“It’s an honour,” he murmured, his gaze already on Rose.

She’d navigated a few more steps during the welcome, staying on the second stair so she could hold onto the banister. He shrugged off his coat and passed it to the butler, Williams, without looking then walked to the bottom of the stairs. Rose felt a thrill of excitement as he came closer.

“You look better,” he said when he stopped, lifting a hand in offering.

She shook her head coyly and took his hand, letting go of the rail as she descended the last steps, replying, “I look a state.”

“No,” he said softly, “you’re beautiful.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

Rose felt her eyebrows lift in surprise at the old gesture. She heard her mum “Aww,” at them, but couldn’t take her eyes from Harry’s. Too soon, the feeling of his soft lips on her knuckles was gone.

She struggled to keep the pleased grin off her face, and said, “We’ve got drinks in the sitting room, some bubbly or wine, if you like…”

He took a breath to speak, but Jackie beat him to it. “You two go on. Me ‘n Pete’ll make sure the meal’s ready.”

Pete looked confused for a second, until Jackie elbowed him. “Ow! Oh, uh, yeah, yeah. Help yourself.”

The Minister grinned at them then turned back to Rose. Her head was ducked, embarrassed at her mother’s lack of subtlety. “I fully intend to,” Harry murmured.

Rose lifted her head at that, looking at him in confusion, but he just smiled, and helped her walk into the large sitting room.

* * *

He walked Rose to the antique chaise longue, relishing the tranquillity in his mind. How had he lived with it, always there, never satisfied, never relenting? He realized now how erratically his mind had been working under their influence. A Paradox Machine – genius, yes. Sane, no. Not that he’d ever been accused of being sane, but he knew self-preservation. An empire built on a paradox was easily toppled. A slight disturbance in the machine would unravel everything and a TARDIS had many of its own ghosts that could cause complications of their own.

No, it would never stick.

And Toclafane! Allying himself with the residue of the human race… poetic, dastardly, but the way they _talked_. Demanding to be saved – how did the Doctor stand it? Ah, now, there’s a thought. It might be worth doing just to see how it hurt the Doctor, when he told him what the Toclafane were.

Yet now, away from the call to war, when he knew and remembered the times of calm, it was foolish. The war was ended, and they had lost. So many planets swallowed in the wrath and rage… now just him and the Doctor, the plague carriers of the Time War. Best enemies.

How romantic.

It all passed through his mind in a blink. He helped the human girl down then went to pick up a couple of champagne flutes, filling them from the chilling bottle then returning to the chaise longue.

He sat next to her, leaving a gap between them. Handing hers over, he sipped his own and hummed appreciatively. “Have you recalled anything more?” he asked lightly. Perhaps he could pinpoint where she had acquired this unique ability of hers, and then he wouldn’t need her. Pretty as she was, she was still human and atrociously common. No one who met her could believe she had private schooling as her paperwork claimed.

“A bit more about my work, and some bastard called Jimmy.” She winced and shivered, then took a slow sip of her carbonated wine. “Could have gone all my life without needin’ to ever remember some of that.”

“Jimmy?” the Master repeated, curious.

“An ex. Oh, from ages ago, must have been. Put me right of campin’.”

His eyebrows rose at that, but he noticed her body language was becoming defensive. He smiled at her, and shrugged, “We all have that someone. You remember some more of your work? Torchwood?”

She seemed disorientated a second by his change of topic, “Uh… yeah. Some bits. More aliens. Some really alien aliens, with…” She moved her hand out in front of her face, describing a snout or horn with a single wave. “Ugh!” she exclaimed, expressing her disgust, though her face told of excitement and joy at the strangeness. He chuckled and she grinned at him for a moment, before her newly-shaped eyebrows were brought down in a frown. “I remembered… something… about the hospital. That medicine – that… black star?”

“Obsidian Sun,” he corrected.

“Yeah, that. It’s, what, for private hospitals?” She remembered something. Something she thought was important. She was trying to gain information without offering any in return. It was good to know she was smart under the concussion.

He decided to humour her. Medicine didn’t seem very important to him. “There aren’t any private hospitals. They were made obsolete. Obsidian Sun owns all the run hospitals in the Western World, and are coming close to owning all the Eastern ones, too.” It was just more proof she wasn’t from here.

Where, then? Not the future or the past, he’d already worked that out. Maybe she had been force-grown. Cloning was simple. That would mean there’d had to be another Rose on earth. He’d look into the genetic database – New Germany had a vast collection, he knew. Or maybe she was an original, grown from a fertilised egg… but why?

The possibilities spread and multiplied in his mind, like the moves in a chess match, only backwards and a hundred times more pieces and squares.

She spoke, jarring him out of his thought pattern. “No, sorry – what? When did that happen?”

“Oh, sixty years ago. Sixty-two. They’ve been around for longer, but that was the year they made access to their medicine free. You can’t even say that for the NHS, and they train their staff better. They can actually brew tea. Great leap in medical science.”

She laughed, eyes dancing with amusement. He lifted his hand sliding his fingers along her jaw, cupping her cheek. The laughter died, and her eyes, such a strange hazel, took on a different emotion.

“Do you… ah…” He stumbled, not knowing the correct wording for what he was trying to ask. Her eyebrows twitched, and the corners of her mouth deepened as she tried not to smile. “I would like, very much, to date you.” He had been getting cosy with a Lucy Cole, but he could get just as much out of Peter Tyler’s daughter as he could from Lord Cole’s. Maybe even more. Luckily, there was nothing official for the tabloids to exploit.

“Would you?” Rose replied. She sucked in her breath so it hissed between her teeth. “I dunno. Date a politician? Want a ‘bit of rough’, do you?”

The Master smiled slowly. “Oh, more than a bit. I find you too… addictive to just have a bit. I’ll take you to glamorous restaurants, movie premiers, ah, some of the most exclusive clubs in the country and sneak you into Number Ten to meet Harriet Jones…” He trailed off when he saw her eyes go unfocused, staring blankly into mid-air. Something had sparked a memory. Her eyes snapped back to him, and he lifted an eyebrow at her.

“I… I met her, already. Flydale North. Slitheen. Raxacorico….”

“…Fallapatorius?” he finished when he saw her struggling. It was a wild guess, but no other word began with Raxacorico.

“Yeah, that… how do you know?” She looked at him, suddenly distrustful, pulling away from his touch. “How do you know about them? Only the… the…” Her eyes drifted away as she grasped for a name just out of her reach.

He pulled his hand back, wondering how much she’d remembered. “The… Doctor?” he ventured.

Her eyes snapped to his. She knew the name. “The Doctor,” she repeated. “The Doctor. Oh my God. I don’t understand. He’s… it doesn’t make sense. The Doctor?”

She looked so lost again, so frightened of her own mind, her own past. The Doctor was breaking her from the inside out without knowing it, and it was beautiful.

Her eyes darted away from him suddenly, and she stiffened, lifted the glass and took a long drink. “This is ridiculous. I’m sorry, its just… there’s so much in my head. I don’t know what order it all goes in, or what it means or why I feel so bad. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. You’re healing. It’s good,” he told her softly, comforting.

“Is it? I don’t know.” She laughed suddenly, a little too hysterical to be for humour. “Still want to date me?”

“Oh yes,” he said, rubbing her back. “Even more, actually.” So she was one of the Doctor’s companions. He wondered what face his old friend had worn for her.

She laughed again, but sounded more tired that panicked. She turned to look at him, and shook her head. “I don’t know why you wanna, but, yeah, we can give it a go.”

“Wonderful,” he purred, leaning in to kiss her.

“Oh my God,” can a familiar voice from the doorway. “You said you weren’t datin’!”

Rose and the Master looked towards the voice, Rose saying excitedly, “Mickey! You made it!”

The Master leant, annoyed at the interruption.

“Oi, don’t just stand there, plonker, get in!” came another man’s voice from behind the dark-skinned Londoner.

“Jake, too!” Rose said happily. “Come on, Mickey, meet Harry. That’s Jake behind him. They work in Torchwood, too. Harry’s the Minister of Defence.”

Jake squeezed into the room, past the gawping Mickey. “You doin’ all right, Rose? Nice to meet you, Sir,” he said to Harry.

“Just fine. Uh, what’s wrong with Mickey?”

Jake turned to look at his partner and shrugged. “Dunno. Oi, what’s wrong now? He’s been actin’ weird all week. Almost got ‘im eaten by one of them Weevils.” He turned to Mickey. “Am I gonna have to clock you one, like Suzie did?”

“Naw, naw, you’re all right. Uh. Lets have some of this.” He stumbled a little as he moved towards the drinks table. He cast another glance back at the bemused Rose, and met the Master’s gaze. There was a flicker of something. A recognition and a warning.

Interesting.


End file.
